


Static (It Will Rain)

by messofthejess



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Body Modification, F/M, Introspection, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8392318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messofthejess/pseuds/messofthejess
Summary: Stein always misses her when it storms.





	

           The day she leaves is one of the loveliest blue-sky days in memory, because why shouldn’t Death City give Marie Mjolnir a bright and shiny send-off? Lord Death had the private departure ceremony in the Death Room as was custom for all Death Scythes about to be dispatched, but he also set up a public event for Academy students to say goodbye. And what a goodbye it was, with streaming tears and flowers littering the cobblestone streets as Marie waved from the backseat of the Academy limousine.

            He should have been there. He should have at least gone to the Death Room, since he was her meister, her partner. But Spirit would have definitely been there as Lord Death’s right-hand man. And if Spirit was there, Kami was sure to be lurking about, glaring daggers at him the whole time. Azusa likely wouldn’t have said anything, but she would have probably adjusted her glasses in that annoyingly superior way she had, lenses flashing. Hard to say who else would have been around. The point was that the only person who would have liked to see him was the one who was leaving, the one who had beamed at him with a shining golden eye after she’d received her assignment to Oceania. Wasn’t he excited?

            No, definitely not. He was a man of curiosity, and his curiosity would be piqued if he came across something fascinating. There wasn’t much that _excited_ him. She’d looked up at him so expectantly, though, her wavelength positively humming. Oceania was easy: Lord Death rarely received news that there were pre-kishins developing there, presumably because everyone was enjoying the island living too much to think about consuming souls for power. There’d be plenty of time to relax in the sweetness of a coconut half, to let the golden freckles pop up on her shoulders like they always did when she’d come back to the Academy after summer break. It wouldn’t have been his choice for a Death Weapon post, but he wasn’t consulted. He supposed all that was left for him to do was hide away in his lab, quietly tinkering with experiments which may or may not have consequence for anyone besides him.

            He’d left her bedroom door open after she’d packed up. The only thing that vaguely indicated Marie had even been there was a pair of bobby pins left on the dresser, one threaded inside the other. He plucks them from the dresser and drops them in the pocket of his lab coat. What he needs them for, he isn’t sure, but he feels a little less numb carrying them with him.

            He reaches to his inner pocket for his pack of cigarettes, stopping midway down the hall when he realizes he could smoke inside the lab now. He could live off of cup noodles and let folded white takeout boxes stack up on the counter without a petite blonde scrunching her nose at them and sweeping them one-handed into the wastebasket. He could sell the TV that dominated the wall of the living room in exchange for an upgrade to his much-antiquated computer. There are many things he could do right now without hesitation, without consequence. But right now, sitting on the concrete steps in front of the lab and smoking sounds like a good idea.

           He’s not sure when the blue sky was stretched over by slate-gray clouds, nor when those clouds started puffing up with rain. He does notice that it takes him several tries to flick his lighter, something he can usually do in one try. But eventually he crouches down on the wet concrete steps, a cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. His soul tries reaching out for the familiar electricity of hers, and he thinks the rumbling in the clouds could be the conductor, the synapse between them. Nothing. Not even a faint spark at the edge of his consciousness—she’s too far away now.

          Yellow petals drift through the gutter in front of his lab, and he watches them swirl around, around, around, down the storm drain.

***

          He should really have supervision for this, he thinks. But supervision would mean another person standing there, trying to talk him out of doing something so perfectly insane.

          He’s hauled out his old notebooks from his days with Spirit, mused over the pages of diagrams he’d drawn just three years before. Oddly, his own handwriting looks foreign to him now; he’s gotten so used to typing his research on a computer lately. The last instance he can think of seeing someone else’s handwriting was when he dug an old grocery shopping list written in Marie’s loopy script out of an inner pocket of his lab coat. He was about to throw the crumpled green sticky note in the garbage, but he smoothed it out and left it sitting next to his chipped coffee mug printed with the molecule for caffeine.

          It turns out that while the soul is located somewhere near the middle of the chest in every human, the Soul Perception ability is largely housed in the mind. Stein learned from his dissections that Spirit’s wavelength manipulation was a product of his soul and mind working in tandem to perceive and adapt to the souls around him. Stein could resonate with any weapon if they were in range and he was curious enough about them, but he had to force it. He _could_ force it. And he thinks he’s finally stumbled upon the hurdle that’s been keeping him from feeling Marie again: his own brain.

           Really, it made sense. Between the daily infusion of caffeine and nicotine, and the infliction of being a genius, his brain was stimulated constantly. Even while his focus was trained on something directly in front of him, there was a hiss of white noise in the background as he absorbed and processed the stimuli around him. He needed a way to dial it back, to not be so cerebral. He needed to be more like Spirit—let the soul do the talking.

           He thinks he’s found the solution. A giant screw of sorts, driven through his skull that he can turn like a radio knob to tune into souls near and far. He’ll have about 20 minutes to make the incision, shove the screw into his head, and stagger to his bed where the IV and blood bags are already hanging from their stand before the hemorrhaging begins. If the experiment is a success, he’ll be able to focus on nearly every soul and beyond; if it’s a true success, he’ll be able to feel her again. If he fails…well, it’s not like anyone would miss him, right?

           The stainless steel of the exam table is biting and cool against his cheek. He raises the trephine in one steady surgeon’s hand and presses into the side of his head. Blood trickles into his eyes as a bolt of lightning cracks the sky outside.

***

            He’s always smiled when it rains. He’s always grinned when it storms.

            The Weather Channel becomes the closest thing he has for a friend. He watches religiously, waiting for the rotating cast of meteorologists to put on their serious face and discuss the risk of severe weather coming for Death City, about how he should really avoid being on the top floors of any structure while there is active lightning outside.

            Hey, they never said anything about being up on the _roof_ , did they?

            He is soaked to the bone, his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and his workout pants not faring much better. He strips off the shirt and lets it flap wetly from the chemical vent mounted on the roof next to him. All the while his hand never once leaves the screw, turning it incrementally, experimentally, listening.

_Marie,_ he says through his wavelength. _Marie, I’m looking for you. Are you looking for me?_

            The storm builds energy above his head. It seems as though every turn of the screw makes the clouds rumble more ferociously, but that’s just coincidence to his scientific mind. Every soul in Death City that was once a hum in his ears dials down, down, down to silence, and he focuses. He’s never been one for the beach, but maybe Marie was relaxing in a hammock under the afternoon sun in Fiji, oversized sunglasses perched on her pointed little nose. Yeah, that seemed like something she’d enjoy, especially after a long swim in the ocean and some frolicking in the sand. She is the only person he knows that could actually frolic. It was charming to think about, really. Cute, even.

          Lightning rakes across the sky. Maybe she’s forgotten about him. She’s a Death Scythe, to be sure, but they’ve likely paired her off with another meister by now. Perhaps she is too enthralled by the notion of being partnered with someone who could actually reciprocate her affection. He’d given her kisses now and again, and indulged her when she wanted to hold hands as they walked through the market, but he’d told himself that he couldn’t feel that way. He couldn’t love. He wasn’t built that way.

         Well, wasn’t that the biggest lie he’s ever told himself.

         There’s nothing that can be done about it now anyway. She left no address behind, no phone number to call, because why would she expect him to? All he can hope for is that this works, that he didn’t spend nearly a week laid up in bed from the blood loss for an experiment that might not even—

         Wait. _There._ It had flickered in like a radio station broadcast from a small town and vanished again because he’d been tuned to just a hair off the right frequency. He inches the screw back, one click, two clicks.

         And there it is, blazing through him like the first sunrise after a hurricane. The crackling, sweet wavelength that is undeniably Marie’s, coming through clear as if she was sitting right next to him. He punches a fist to the lightning-wrought sky and yells out through his wavelength, and maybe outside his wavelength too—he can’t tell because of the booming thunder. And through their connection, he swears he can feel her smile.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, my poor, lovelorn scientist :(
> 
> Written for the "Thunderstorm" theme of SteinMarie Week 2016.


End file.
